


Weld

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 17:15:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11384757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Mairon finds entrancing Maeglin laughably easy.





	Weld

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Maeglin’s a pretty thing, if trivial, and Mairon enjoys bearing down on him, grinding him into the sheets and making his skin hiss from the flames. Mairon takes care never to scald to the point of scars, only to burn enough for Maeglin to flush and sweat, writhe and moan, his plush lips begging only for release. Mairon fists a hand in the dark braid over his shoulder, pulling him taut, and licks across his pale throat, until he’s screaming loud and arching off the bed. He splatters only himself, his seed stark white against his blushing stomach. Mairon thinks of licking it away. 

Instead, Mairon looms over Maeglin’s spent form, sweeping stray hairs away from his perfect face and purring into his pointed ear, “Are you ready to learn now, my pet?”

“ _Yesss_ ,” Maeglin pleads, arching again into the heat of Mairon’s body. Mairon rewards his eagerness with a kiss, filling up his little mouth and twisting around his tongue—when Mairon pulls away, Maeglin is left with saliva trailing down his bruised lips. His eyes are thickly dilated, his lashes heavy. He looks utterly _wrecked_ , and indeed he has been since the Orcs first dragged him here. 

They kicked his bent and battered form down by the throne, and he reeked then of blood and fear, like the sort of thrall Mairon would never spare a second glance. But Mairon has bathed him, healed him, cleaned him and revealed the true gem beneath the muck. He shines with the beauty of those born in Valinor, though he’s _young_ , nothing compared to what Mairon’s seen. He’s a lovely little trinket to have, and more and more, Mairon thinks of keeping him. 

Best of all is Maeglin’s eagerness to see the forge. When Mairon drifts from the bed, his robes of black smoke wafting about him, Maeglin hurries to follow. He snatches a sheet to cover his naked boy, but Mairon rips it away, sending it to the floor and grabbing Maeglin by the hair again—Mairon’s favourite place to hold. Another searing kiss, and Maeglin submits, held at the ready. His body trembles with anticipation. The thirst for _knowledge_ is in his eyes. For all his youth, this one knows more skill at crafts than any of the Eldar Mairon’s known, except, perhaps, for Fëanáro and his namesake. But those are another day’s victory, and Maeglin is yet unspoiled.

There’s no need for chains or spells. When Mairon walks, Maeglin follows of his own volition, right through the towering halls cut out of the very mountain, down towards the earth, hotter with every step they take. Mairon’s forge lies at the very bottom, the circular floor silhouetted in fresh pools of lava that lick yellow and orange up the walls; the place glows golden from more than the sconces. Maeglin looks about with awe, and though his delicate feet sizzle with every step, he doesn’t once complain. It isn’t until Mairon smells the burning of flesh that he comes to scoop Maeglin into his arms, and he holds Maeglin above the ground as he summons slippers of smoke. Then he sets Maeglin down into them, and Maeglin sighs in relief. They whisper soft across the floor when he walks and claim him as much as a collar around his neck. Mairon might still craft that. A good many decorations might look good on Maeglin’s handsome form—a collar for his throat, a crown for his head, jewels for his ears and baubles for his nipples, perhaps even a muzzle of silver mail. Or Mairon could drape gems about his waist and have him dance. The possibilities are endless, and when the war is won and time is free again, Mairon thinks to play.

No one else is allowed in this place, a Maia’s alone, and there’s no one else to see Maeglin’s nakedness. He seems to have forgotten it entirely, or at least is too distracted with wonderment to care—he ogles everything he sees, his hand often reaching out but stopping before contact, longing yet afraid to touch every little thing. There’s a well of lava in the center that Mairon brings him to, a heavy anvil set behind it, tongs and hammer waiting for instruction. Mairon drapes an arm around Maeglin’s slender waist and guides him right to the well, until his knees brush the base of it and his hands could dip inside. Then Mairon steps behind him, bracketing his body, and stretches longer arms around his.

Maeglin’s breath hitches. The hunger in him is palpable—Mairon now knows that nothing in Maeglin’s fair city has ever pleased him so much as _this_ , the gift of _creation_ that only Mairon can give him. Marion leans against Maeglin’s pretty face and whispers, “Would you like to see how _life_ is made?”

Maeglin’s chest is heaving. He breathes now fast and hard, excitement bristling inside him—Mairon can feel the tremours that wrack his trim figure. Mairon threads his fingers into Maeglin’s, then guides them forward, and Maeglin, unafraid, lets Mairon sink them into the lava.

Maeglin doesn’t scream. Mairon protects him, holding him tight and steady, to find the dying metal inside, a kind the Eldar couldn’t even conceive of. Mairon lets Maeglin’s palms close around it, and together, they draw it up, holding it aloft—the twisted plating of a baby firedrake, mewling and crying, with little studs out either side where Marion would give it _wings_.

Maeglin’s eyes are wide. His lips are parted. He eyes the creature with pure _rapture_ , and Mairon purrs, “Would you like to form its wings?”

With a sudden laugh, loud and to the point of madness, Maeglin drops the drake. It topples into the lava, shrieking as it sinks and splashes, but Maeglin pays it no heed, only stares at his two hands, still safe in Mairon’s embrace. He’s had a taste of _power_ now, the kind only Mairon, of all the Maiar alone, could give. Then he turns fast in Mairon’s arms, spinning around, and his face is wrought with more desire than Mairon’s ever seen. He opens his mouth, perhaps to beg for _more_ , but then he loses his words and only shakes his head. His laughter returns, but smaller, giddy. When he finishes, he’s smiling broad. He’s rife with adoration.

And in that moment, Mairon knows that Maeglin, the sable mole of Gondolin, is _his_ alone.


End file.
